


Espresso, Steamed Milk, & Dicks

by missmichellebelle



Series: Grumpy Barista [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You want a latte so bad, make it yourself."</p><p>“…okay.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Espresso, Steamed Milk, & Dicks

**Author's Note:**

> **Tropetember** is a month long event where the goal is to write a fic fulfilling a different trope/AU every day. If there is a specific trope/AU you would like to see, please [drop me an ask on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> Hey I never said I wouldn't use pre-existing verses in this.
> 
> It gives me an excuse to write more of them okay.
> 
> This part was originally not going to go this way. And I had about three different endings in mind. I decided I enjoy the slow build, and I wanted to stick it out a little bit longer.
> 
> ...that's a very misleading title, I'm sorry.
> 
> The espresso/steaming equipment that is used is based on the ones we use where I work, sooooo. Yeah.

Mickey doesn’t realize that it’s become a thing until the night Ian doesn’t come in, and Mickey spends his entire shift looking at the door every time it opens. And then he locks the door after the last person leaves and realizes that Ian never came in. He also realizes that he was _expecting_ Ian to come in, and that Ian has come in every night for the last two weeks without fail.

How had Mickey not fucking realized that it’d become a _thing?_ He doesn’t do things. Not like that.

He takes the full hour closing that night, just because he feels like it. It’s got nothing to do with him feeling less energetic than usual—he’s never really energetic, anyway. And it sure as fuck has _nothing_ to do with Ian.

*

Every time Mickey finds himself look at the door the next night, he gets the urge to stab himself in the hand. _Stop fucking looking at the door_.

Ian is a regular. Big fucking deal. They have tons of regulars, and Mickey doesn’t wet himself every time they come in. What makes Ian so fucking special, anyway?

Never mind he’s the only customer who ever asks after Mickey, who doesn’t seem terrified of him, who doesn’t seem to think Mickey’s bad upbringing will somehow come off into their drinks. But so what? The fuck does he care what Ian thinks of him?

“You missed a spot,” comes Ian’s voice from behind him while Mickey starts mopping up the lobby. They close in five minutes.

“Fuck off,” Mickey bites back, even though Ian’s right and he fucking did. Smug bastard. Ian grins, hovering too close behind Mickey’s shoulder, until Mickey stops mopping and turns to stare at him, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Latte?” Ian prompts.

“We’re closed,” Mickey deadpans. He doesn’t want to put up with Ian’s shit tonight.

He absolutely isn’t fucking punishing Ian for not showing up the night before. He’s not some whiny bitch.

“I still have three minutes,” Ian points out, matter-of-factly. “Come on? Please? I came all the way here.”

Mickey wonders what _all the way here_ means. Where is Ian coming from? Why the fuck does he go out of this way for a fucking latte? Mickey’s had one, and they’re fucking nasty.

“You want one so bad, make it yourself,” Mickey mumbles, going back to mopping.

“…okay.”

It takes a few long moments for Mickey to realize what Ian said, and that, more importantly, Ian is no longer hovering over his shoulder like some sort of obnoxious parrot. When Mickey glances around, he sees Ian back behind the bar, where he’s absolutely not supposed to be.

“Fucking—you’re not supposed to be back there,” Mickey calls at him, letting the mop rest against the wall as he rushes towards Ian.

“You told me to make my own latte!” Ian replies defensively, holding up his hands, but the way his lips are quirked in the corner tells Mickey that Ian knows exactly what it is that he is doing.

“I was trying to tell you to go fuck yourself,” Mickey explains, exasperated. He could get in so much shit for this, except that he’s pretty sure Clark cut out about fifteen minutes early.

“Well how is that my fault? Next time, be more direct.” Ian waves his fingers in front of the espresso machine, like he expects it to work just like that, and it’s actually kind of funny. Ian frowns when nothing happens, and then looks at Mickey. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“No shit?” Mickey grins, crossing his arms.

“Teach me?” Ian suggests, bumping his shoulder against Mickey’s and alerting him to how close they’re standing to each other. They usually don’t _touch_ each other. Even when Mickey sets the latte down on the counter, he moves his hand away before Ian grabs for the cup. The one exception was the first night Mickey ever made Ian a drink, when he’d grabbed Mickey’s wrist.

“Fuck you. Why should I?”

“Didn’t you hear me before? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” Ian’s finger hovers dangerously close to one of the buttons on the machine. “It would suck if I broke it.”

“…was that a fucking threat?” Mickey’s actually a little impressed.

“Come on. You’re the barista here, not me. Teach me,” Ian implores him, glancing at Mickey with this soft look in his eyes that makes Mickey feel uncomfortable.

“The fuck did you just call me?” Mickey spits, eyebrows furrowed—what the fuck is a _bearista?_ —and Ian just looks at him in amusement as his finger inches closer and closer to a button. “Okay, just—fuck, don’t touch anything,” Mickey sighs in frustration, rubbing at his temple. Ian looks momentarily delighted that he’s made Mickey cave, and then immediately schools his face into the look of a student eagerly awaiting the words of his teacher.

How the fuck did Mickey’s night end up here?

“Let me just lock up real quick, all right? And I’m serious, don’t fucking touch anything.”

Ian’s expression gives way to surprise immediately, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something—but doesn’t. And by that time, Mickey is already walking around the bar and to the front door. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just kick Ian out. Yeah, he’s taller, but Mickey could force him out if he had to, and if his bosses find out he had locked up with a customer still in the store, he’d probably get his ass fired.

But he just locks the door, checks it, and then turns off the lobby lights because for some fucking reason a locked door isn’t enough to signify that they’re _fucking closed_. Mickey very purposefully does not think about why he let Ian stay in the store.

“All right, latte guru, teach me your ways.”

Mickey side-eyes Ian as if he’s the weirdest fuck he’s ever encountered in Chicago (which isn’t true, but it feels like it right in that moment).

“Okay, calm down, Richie Cunningham,” Mickey says, reluctance heavy in his voice.

“…was that a Happy Days reference?”

“Would you just fucking get the pitcher and the milk out of the fridge,” Mickey groans, and Ian laughs, head whipping around as he looks for the fridge. “The one at your knees, jackass.”

“Not my fault you give shitty directions,” Ian mumbles, pulling the supplies out of the fridge. Mickey just glares at him, and doesn’t comment.

“How big a drink you want?”

“Uh… Medium?” Ian doesn’t sound too sure about that.

“All right, fill the milk up to the third line in the pitcher.”

“Wouldn’t it be the second line?” Ian must feel the deadly weight of Mickey’s stare, because he quickly coarse corrects. “I mean, you’re the barista here, you obviously know what you’re talking about.”

“Would you stop fucking using that faggy word? Shit.” He grabs a hot cup and sets it aside. “Put one of those shot glasses right there in the middle, all right, now steam the milk using the wand.” Ian is looking at Mickey with a smile curling on his lips. “The fuck you looking at me like that for?”

“Nothing,” Ian hums, fumbling with the wand and lowering it into the milk before looking expectantly at Mickey.

“Press the third button down.”

Ian does, and the milks start to screech loudly.

“Shit! I broke it! What is it doing? Why is it making that sound? _Why are you laughing at me?_ ” Ian shrieks, still holding onto the handle of the pitcher, and Mickey presses his fist to his mouth to keep the laughter from getting too loud.

“Move the pitcher down the wand.”

“I don’t know what the fucking means!”

“You are fucking dramatic as shit, here—“ Mickey hesitates for a second before putting his hand over Ian’s, and helping him lower the pitcher. The shrieking sound changes to more of a hiss. “You want to have it making that noise. Got it?” Mickey glances up at Ian, a little surprised to see that Ian is staring at him rather than at what he’s doing.

They’re really fucking close to each other, and the air feels thick as Mickey drags it into his lungs.

Mickey pulls his hand away as if Ian’s skin burns him, and then turns away for a second. The _fuck_ was that?

Ian clears his throat, and Mickey turns back around, eyeing him warily.

“So… What next?” Ian asks, and Mickey walks back over, hovering a few feet away this time, afraid that what just happened will happen again if he gets too close.

“See the coffee cup pictures? Hit the one with two next to it.” Mickey rubs the corner of his lip, and he wonders why he didn’t just kick Ian out when he should have. Why the fuck did Mickey let him stay? How did he talk Mickey into doing this in the first place? “Pour the espresso into the cup, and then the milk, and you’re done.”

“Okay… But how dod I make a heart?” Ian looks over at him. Mickey stares back incredulously.

“I—I don’t fucking know, it’s in like. The wrist movement or something.” Mickey had just started fucking around with it.

Ian bites down on his lip as he goes to pour the milk, and Mickey wishes he could make himself stop staring at Ian’s mouth.

“Pour slowly,” Mickey advises at the last second, and Ian’s eyes flash up to him, before he follows the instructions. Mickey watches, and when Ian is done, he sets the pitcher down and observes his foam with a tilted head.

“Huh. That’s, uh…” Ian grins.

“You made a dick,” Mickey deadpans, and then looks up at Ian. “You made a dick with latte foam.” He presses his lips together, holding in the laugh, but Ian doesn’t seem to have the same reservations. His laugh starts quietly and gets steadily louder, until he’s gripping at the counter to keep himself from falling over.

“A fucking _dick_ ,” Ian is sputtering between laughters, and it’s contagious enough that Mickey finds himself smiling practically against his will, quiet chuckles shaking his shoulders.

“That takes some serious skill right there.”

“I guess my wrist just isn’t as talented as yours,” Ian admits, the smile on his face still wide as he gains control of his breathing again.

It almost sounds like a come-on.

“Hey, not everyone can make faggy hearts with milk.” It’s not something Mickey’s ever exactly felt pride in, but for a second… He kind of does.

“Yeah, yeah.” Ian rolls his eyes, before looking down at the latte he made. “It’s cool, not like I mind having dicks in my mouth.”

Mickey’s mind goes momentarily, absolutely blank.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Mickey’s voice is deathly quiet. Ian is staring at him, face torn with regret, and then he’s popping a cap on his latte and slapping a ten dollar bill down on the counter.

“Nothing,” he rushes to say, pushing past Mickey. “Forget it. There’s a back door, right? I’ll just leave through there.”

And Ian is gone, just like that, Mickey still rooted in place and staring at the splashes of milk on the counter and the pitcher that is no doubt still hot to the touch.

Did Ian just tell Mickey he was a fag? Why the _fuck_ would he do that?

Unless he knows Mickey is one. _Fuck_ , does he know? Shit, shit, shit.

What the fuck is Mickey supposed to do _now?_

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/96735788125/espresso-steamed-milk-dicks)


End file.
